by Ann Purser
“Our pensions, and we shall get some money from the sale of the business … or the property.” She felt a rising excitement at the prospect.
Fergus nodded. “The area is going up,” he said. “Prices of houses round there are rising all the time. I was talking to Hazel and Maureen—”
Rupert leaned forward and interrupted him with venom. “If,” he hissed, “you spent less time talking to those stupid women, we might be gaining business instead of losing it. The shop always looks a mess, and your sales talk is pathetic. You’re a waste of space, and the answer to your ridiculous proposition is No, No, No!” His voice had risen to a shout, and his face was apoplectic.
Fergus stood up. He looked at his parents, squared his shoulders, and marched out, slamming the front door as he went. Daisy heard his car driving off and put her head in her hands.
“Stop that blubbing!” Rupert yelled, and raised his fist. At that moment, the doorbell rang. And then the knocker rapped several times.
“Morning, sir.” A man in a well-cut suit stood there. “Inspector Cowgill, Tresham police. May I come in? Just a few more questions I’d like to ask you and your wife.”
FORTY-EIGHT
LATER THAT DAY, WHEN NOT A SINGLE CUSTOMER HAD crossed the threshold of Rain or Shine, Fergus Forsyth considered shutting the shop early. He had returned after his abortive conversation—if you could call it a conversation—with his father, and had spent the rest of the day planning his future. If his father would not co-operate, then Fergus had decided to carry out what he planned, regardless of what happened to the business. He would wash his hands of his father, and start straight away on applying for further education courses and grants. He had a fair amount of money put safely away, and he had hoped his father would reward his years of faithful service with a share of any sale. Ha! Those hopes were dashed this morning. But no matter, he would stay afloat whatever happened.
He looked out of the window. The lights were on in the New Brooms office, and he could see Hazel talking on the telephone. She was a good listener. Maybe he’d walk over and have a chat. He needed someone to confide in. The day’s events had left him very determined, but at the same time he felt shaky when he thought of how Rupert would take it out on Daisy. Fergus was fond of his mother, but had never found a way of helping her. She always laughed away his concern, saying she was tough, tougher than his father any day, and Fergus was not to worry.
Just as he was locking the safe and preparing to leave, a car drew up outside. Ken Slater. Fergus looked at his watch. Still a quarter of an hour to official closing time. He sighed and went back inside the shop, switching on the lights.
“Ah, good lad!” said Ken. “Thought you were shut, for one awful moment …”
He walked not too steadily behind Fergus, and sat down on a stool, narrowly missing falling off the edge. Oh my God, thought Fergus. Ken Slater the worse for wear. He was a boring enough companion sober, but drunk …
“Been playing golf with a lovely lady,” Ken said happily. “Thought I’d pop in for a chat. You going to the gun club tonight? There’s the big competition, and you’d stand a good chance. I shall be there—give you a lift if you like?”
Ye gods, Fergus muttered. If Ken turned up in this state, he’d be shown the door and probably exit into the arms of the police bearing breathalyser. “Not sure, Ken,” he said. “Better go under my own steam. I shan’t decide until later.”
“Well, let me know if you change your mind,” Ken replied expansively. “Plenty of room in the old Audi …” He swayed on his stool, and his eyelids drooped. Then he snapped awake. “Did I ever tell you,” he began in a portentous voice, “about the time I took Howard to the club? Not golf … no, the gun club, I mean.” Fergus nodded, but Ken continued anyway. “Disaster!” he said. “The bugger’s hands shook so hard he nearly dropped the gun. Terrified! Never got anywhere near the ranges. Had to take him home, shaking like a jelly. Luckily Doreen was there. Took his hand like he was a kid. Knew just what to do. He asked me—well, paid me, if you want the truth—to keep quiet about it, and I did. You’re the first person I’ve told, and I know you’ll keep mum. Good old Fergus!” He began to laugh, and couldn’t stop.
Fergus said, “I’ll get you a glass of water,” and rushed out to the back room. He pulled out his mobile and dialled the Slaters’ home number. No reply. Sod it! He got the water and considered throwing it over Ken to sober him up.
When Fergus returned the laughter had stopped, and Ken sat up to the counter with his head resting on his hands. “All right now,” he said morosely, all his good humour evaporated.
There was a short silence, whilst Fergus wondered what on earth to do. He couldn’t let the fool drive his car, but he was sure that Ken wouldn’t agree to a taxi, or a lift from Fergus. He had the supreme confidence of a man fuelled by far too much alcohol, and anyway, he was bigger than Fergus.
“Came in useful, later on,” Ken muttered, as if to himself.
“What did?” Fergus was still thinking desperately, not really concentrating on what Ken had said.
Ken turned and looked at him. “What did you say, young Fergus?”
“What did?”
Ken looked puzzled. “You’re talking in riddles, boy,” he said. “Riddle, diddle, dee … I need a pee!” This sent him off into another fit of uncontrollable laughter, and Fergus looked around desperately for the mop bucket.
At this inauspicious moment, just as Fergus found the bucket, the door flew open and Jean Slater appeared, followed by Doreen Jenkinson. They ignored Fergus completely, and positioned themselves either side of a surprised Ken. “Come on, you fool,” Jean said. “Ready, Doreen?” Doreen nodded, and they frog-marched him out of the shop and into the back seat of his car. A swift consultation between the two women, and then Jean drove off in the Audi without once looking back.
Fergus stood motionless, staring after the car. Doreen took his arm and propelled him back into the shop. “Sorry about that,” she said. “Doesn’t happen often, but oh boy, when he does go on a bender he does it thoroughly. Funny thing was,” she added lightly, “I was playing golf with him this morning. He did seem a bit abstracted, but otherwise the same old Ken. Still, we had a drink after the game, and when one of my friends offered me a lift home, he said he’d stay for a while and get some lunch. A liquid lunch, I reckon. Jean got a call from the club after he left, and we finally tracked him down. Something must have upset him …”
“Perhaps he was celebrating,” said Fergus.
LONG AFTER CLOSING TIME NOW, BUT THE EIGHTS WERE still on in New Brooms. Fergus felt even more the need to unburden himself to Hazel, and after locking up, crossed the road and greeted her with relief.
“Hi,” he said. “Can you spare a minute to listen to a desperate man?” He was smiling, and Hazel offered to make him a coffee.
“No thanks,” he said. “I just need a sympathetic ear, and who better to come to than the lovely Hazel?”
“That’s quite enough of that! Just get on with it,” Hazel said, and leaned back in her chair.
“Well, it has to be kept very confidential. Not repeated to anyone. Is that all right with you?”
He must be barmy, thought Hazel, but nodded in agreement.
Fergus began at the beginning and related in a neatly chronological order all the events of his day. By the time he had finished, Hazel was sitting up straight, listening hard. “I feel much better now, thanks,” he ended. “Everybody should have a Hazel to talk to,” he ventured.
He got a caustic reply. “Try finding a girlfriend,” Hazel said, and looked at her watch. “Time to shut up shop,” she said, and ushered him out.
She watched him safely across the road, and then switched off most of the lights. Then she lifted the telephone and dialled. “Mrs. M? Hazel here. Have you got a few minutes? I’ve just heard some stuff that might be of interest to you. Fine. Here goes, then.”
FORTY-NINE
JEAN AND DOREEN SAT IN JEAN‘S SMALL KITCHE
N, WITH a defeated-looking Ken on the opposite side of the table. Jean had made quantities of strong, black coffee, and replenished Ken’s mug as soon as he emptied it. “Steady on, Jean,” Doreen said. “He’ll be having the heebie-jeebies with all that caffeine.”
“Serve him right,” Jean said.
After a moment’s silence, Doreen said, “How’s your head?”
“Migraine’s gone,” Jean replied. “It’s like that. Some sudden unexpected shock can do it. Only silver lining to this particular cloud,” she added, glaring at Ken.
“Oh, for God’s sake leave it, Jean,” Ken muttered. “I’ve said I’m sorry … what more do you want? Grovelling? I’ll grovel, if it will shut you up. And I don’t want any more sodding coffee!”
He rose unsteadily to his feet and emptied his mug down the sink. He was no longer drunk, but had the shakes, and stumbled back to his chair.
“So you had a matey chat with Fergus?” Jean said. “And what was it about? How you were still mourning your best friend, and every time you went on the golf course you were reminded of him? Especially when you landed your ball in that wood, in the thick bracken? So you’d decided to drown your woes?”
“Jean …” Doreen said softly. She felt sorry for Ken. But if he’d blabbed to Fergus, then it was serious. She doubted if he remembered any of the conversation, but that didn’t deter Jean.
“Come on, then,” Jean said. “Tell us all. Mind you, we know most of it already, don’t we. You’re a fool, Ken Slater.”
Ken made an attempt to sit up straight. “Thanks very much, wifey dear,” he said. His eyes were like stones. Pinkish stones. “I don’t see why I should tell you anything. Or why the pair of you had to come bustin’ in like a couple of Valkyrie. Well, I don’t intend to be carried off to Valhalla just yet, and I could quite easily have found my way home.”
Doreen raised her eyebrows. “I don’t see you in the home of the Gods, Ken dear,” she said. “More the other place, given the circumstances. Anyway, this is getting us nowhere. And it’s WI tonight, so I’d better get on. I’ll leave him in your capable hands, Jean.” She left quickly, patting Ken’s shoulder lightly as she passed him on her way out.
DOREEN WAS NOT GOING STRAIGHT HOME. SHE DROVE through the narrow lanes at speed, narrowly missing one or two oncoming vehicles, and squashing a small creature rashly crossing the road in front of her. Instead of heading for Hornton House, she turned down a side road and came to a jerky halt in front of the Forsyth house.
Daisy saw her get out of the car and open the garden gate. “Rupert!” she yelled. But he was upstairs in the little office, with Wagner turned up loud, and did not hear. The doorbell rang twice, and then again, impatiently. Daisy opened the door.
“Ah, yes,” said Doreen, “I’d like a word.” She walked past Daisy and into the sitting room. “Is your husband in?” Daisy nodded mutely. “Then ask him if he can spare me a few minutes. I need both of you.”
Rupert appeared, silent for once, and sat next to Daisy on the sofa. Doreen settled herself in an upright chair, in a commanding position over the other two. She stared at them for a couple of minutes, until Daisy stuttered, “H-how can we help you, Mrs. Jenkinson?”
“I doubt if you’re even willing to help me,” Doreen said sharply. “But I don’t need your help. It’s the other way round. I can help you.”
The Forsyths exchanged startled glances. “What do you mean?” Rupert said.
“Well, as you must know, and as your wife certainly knows, my late husband was a jolly man. Loved jolly parties and jolly times with pretty ladies. I never minded. Worked off some of his surplus energy, and saved me the bother. And anyway, it was all in the past. But then it came to my ears that Howard had paid Daisy Forsyth a visit, right under my nose, in the village where we intended to live. Now, this was too much. I’m sure you’d agree with that, Mrs. Forsyth?”
“Where is all this leading us?” Rupert said in an even voice. He moved a few inches away from Daisy, disassociating himself from her goings-on.
“To your son, Fergus.” Doreen smoothed down her skirt and clasped her hands together. She almost smiled. “I understand he is a great gossip. Quite a lot to gossip about, in a shop like yours, I imagine. A friend of mine, as it happens, was talking to him this afternoon. He was not quite himself, unfortunately, and could well have burdened your son with things which were on his mind—things which had nothing to do with Fergus, of course.”
“Get to the point, Mrs. Jenkinson,” said Rupert. “I am rather busy.”
“I think you’ll want to hear the rest, Mr. Forsyth,” Doreen said comfortably. “The point is, you do something for me, and I’ll do something for you. You ask—no—tell Fergus to forget anything my friend told him, erase it; and I’ll make sure Daisy’s little interlude with Howard does no harm to her reputation in Long Farnden.” She sat back in her chair and waited.
Daisy looked at Rupert, and back at Doreen. “Your husband, Mrs. Jenkinson, was an old friend of mine,” she said. “I don’t know and don’t care how “jolly” your marriage was, but I am not in the habit of turning away old friends who find my company congenial.”
She paused, and then stood up. “As for your proposition, my husband and I will discuss it with Fergus, and let you know.” She walked towards the door. “Come this way, please,” she said. “We are both rather busy, and I am sure you are, too. WI tonight, isn’t it? Have a good meeting. Goodbye.”
Doreen drove home slowly. She had been so sure of her strategy, but now felt oddly discomforted. Had Daisy one-upped her? That middle-aged scrubber? She turned into the garage, and was dismayed to hear a scrape as she drove too near the wall.
In a thoroughly bad temper now, she let herself into the house and stepped into three inches of water. The dishwasher had stuck on filling up, and flooded most of the ground floor.
FIFTY
JEAN AND KEN SAT IN SILENCE ON OPPOSITE SIDES OF the breakfast table, which, for all the contact between them, could have been a wide chasm. Ken was pretending to read the newspaper, though the print blurred before his eyes. Jean stared into a cup of cooling coffee and reviewed the last few months.
Since Howard had died, she had enjoyed her freedom, though she was missing the extra cash. With Doreen and Ken, she had picked up the pieces of their lives, and had looked forward to a future without the ever-present grey cloud of Howard and all the trouble he had caused them. She had to admit that her affair with him had been exciting, and had been conducted with a kind of licence from Ken and Doreen, who were at it like rabbits at the same time. She supposed it was that vulnerable time of their lives, when middle age had suddenly been a reality, and dangerous liaisons seemed a good way of keeping the future at bay. Oh, come on, Jean, she said to herself, half-smiling, we were all randy as hell. Simple as that. And it was good while it lasted.
“What are you smiling at?” Ken broke the silence at last. “Doesn’t seem much to smile at just now.”
“Thoughts,” Jean replied dully. “But really I was thinking about all the mistakes we have made. Me and Howard, you and Doreen. Feelings out of control. That sort of thing.”
“At least we shared it all,” Ken said, looking hopefully across the table.
“Not all of it,” Jean said quietly.
“Like what?”
“Like how Howard died. I think you know, Ken. You and Doreen, perhaps. I have an idea, but I don’t know exactly.”
Silence settled over them once more. Then Ken put down his newspaper and stood up. “I’ll make some more coffee,” he said. “Then I’ll go over it with you, step by step, and you’ll see that whatever your husband’s faults are, he is not a murderer.”
“Convince me,” Jean said, and glared at him.
LOIS WALKED OUT INTO DEREK‘S VEGETABLE GARDEN and studied the neat rows of cabbages, carrots, parsnips and onions. Good, old-fashioned English vegetables, increasingly popular in Josie’s shop, where they were sold on the day Derek had lifted them, fresh as a daisy an
d unsullied by sprays or plastic wrappings. She walked on to the little gate in the hedge and through to the footpath by the river. She needed to think, and with the flowing water and clear air, no telephone or Gran chattering to disturb her.
She had not yet heard from Cowgill about Doreen and the letters, but was sure it had been she who blackmailed Norman Stevenson. She had probably had some hold over him from the past, when he had worked in Tresham and had that big row with Howard. Possibly an affair? The Mayor’s Parlour seemed to have been a hotbed of how’s y’father! Why the wealthy wife of Howard Jenkinson should need to blackmail for money was a mystery, but one that Cowgill could easily solve.
Willow branches swept over the footpath, and Lois walked round them, feeling the wet grass cool around her ankles. It had rained in the night, but now the sun was shining and everywhere sparkled. Why am I mixed up in all this? she asked herself. I could be thinking about the business, planning expansion, all that … Maybe this would be the last time she’d be persuaded to help Cowgill. Well, she could postpone that decision. But for now it was back to the fearful foursome. Doreen and Howard, Jean and Ken, linked by so many connections. School, business, sex, Norman, Susanna. Hotbed was probably a good description. A hotbed that overheated somewhere. And now Cowgill’s warning for her to be careful. That meant that one or more of the foursome suspected she knew too much. Perhaps Doreen, alerted by Lois’s questions. Or Jean, who had had access to all Howard’s secrets, more than likely including the Susanna catastrophe. Susanna and New Brooms. It didn’t take much to put two and two together and make five, to add Lois to the foursome—an unwelcome intruder. If Norman Stevenson had known of Lois’s amateur sleuthing, ten to one the Slaters and probably Doreen knew too.
Right. Lois turned purposefully around and headed back to the house. She was due at Hornton House this afternoon, and—watching her back—would quietly open a few drawers and, if she got the chance, ask a few innocent questions. She was pretty sure now that one of them was in some way responsible for Howard’s death, but exactly why and how was still unclear. Doreen had an alibi, but the others did not. They claimed to have been at home, but had no witnesses.